


On a Saturday Morning

by GettheSalt



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Kids and dogs, M/M, and happiness, domesticverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettheSalt/pseuds/GettheSalt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday gift for <a href="http://fitzwards.tumblr.com">Steph</a> / <a href="http://andlatitude.tumblr.com">AndLatitude</a>, inspired by our <a href="http://slamncram.tumblr.com/tagged/domestic!fitzwardverse">domestic!Fitzwardverse</a>.<br/>Fitz and Ward spent a morning in bed, that is, until their parental duties rouse them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Saturday Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andlatitude](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=andlatitude).



If there is such a thing as living in a fairytale, Grant Ward would like to believe he's found it. In fact, the only thing that would hold him back from believing it is that, eventually, all fairytales end. Sure, they're happy endings, but whatever the happy ending to this one is, it better be a long way off. And, besides, he worked hard for this. After everything, this little slice of a fairytale is his pay-off, and it's a pretty damn good one at that.

Especially because he'd been resigned to die long before now. Probably in some back alley in some foreign country, with fake ID on him, and no one to give a damn.

So, no, this is far, far preferable to that.

“I can hear you thinking.”

Grant cracks one eye open, and catches the pair of muddled blue ones watching him. It's only 8:30 in the morning, on a Saturday, and they have no where to be. Nothing to do. They can sleep as late as they want. And yet, here's Leo Fitz, rousing himself because that damn sixth sense he has for 'My Husband is Overthinking Things' is acting up.

“Go back to sleep,” Grant coaxes, shifting his arm against the other's hip, hand curving along his spine, thumb rubbing slowly back and forth. “Come on, I know you want to.”

“Want to,” Fitz agrees, all the while pulling himself closer, until he can fit his cheek against Grant's chest, his mussed curls brushing his chin. “But, you're up, so I should be up, too. Or you'll think yourself into a corner.”

“Nooo,” Grant corrects, drawing the word out, even while he's settling into a comfortable position with the other curled against him.

“Yes,” is the counter he's given, and how, exactly, is he supposed to argue with that?

Over the last ten years – and has it really been a decade? Time flies – there has been a lot of change, for both of them. The first one was quitting SHIELD. That had been strange, and difficult. A decision made on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower on a windy Thursday morning. The fact of the matter was that leaving SHIELD wasn't really as easy as handing in a resignation letter, stating your regrets. SHIELD was a promise and a vow, so on and so forth. But, SHIELD was almost a dying breed. They still existed, today. Both of them still had contacts within the organization, and it was doing well. But, in a world where superheroes could govern themselves, in bodies that made global protection rather extraordinary, SHIELD's services were becoming more and more specialized, and that much smaller.

The second decision had been the house. It wasn't anything extravagant. Three bedrooms, two and a half bath. Upstairs den, downstairs den. Wide open kitchen, living and dining areas. Unfinished basement; at least, it had been when they'd moved in. A few months of on-again, off-again home improvement had fixed that. A big yard, which was good, all things considered, with the other additions...

Scout had been the first. Totally rational, and understandable. A chinook puppy, raised by both of them, trained by Ward. Every house needed a dog, in Ward's opinion, and Scout had been just the one for them. He loved Leo just as much as Grant did, he was loyal, and smart. There wasn't anything not to love about their 'kid'.

Of course, the dog had led to something else, though. Grant still remembers the first night Leo shut off the television, and demanded his attention, worrying his lip between his teeth. The words that came out of his mouth were ones Ward had been expecting for weeks. He hadn't exactly been subtle with his presentation of adoption brochures, and sudden rapt attention whenever something came across the TV about it. 'I would like to adopt. With you.'

It had taken a while. Not just because of the paperwork, of which there was a lot, and the waiting, of which there was even more. It's agreed between the two of them that Grant's weeks-long hesitation, and self-doubting arguments, will never be discussed outside anyone but them.

Certainly not with their son. Absolutely not with Brody.

That certainty, though, really gave Grant the final push he had needed. The one that made him buy the ring, and start carrying it with him, waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the proper moment to pop the question. Fitz beat him to it; casual, and joking, and perfectly setting the scene for Grant to get down on one knee, and ask.

Leo had said yes. The wedding was small; them, and the team. Ms. Fitz, and a few other acquaintances, on the side of a cliff in Scotland. Then it had been off to Alaska for their honeymoon, taking midnight hikes to watch the aurora, and soaking the afternoons away in hot springs.

When they'd gotten back home, they had gotten word that there was someone waiting for them, if they wanted him.

The first time Grant held Brody, he was still nervous. Still concerned about screwing up, because people from bad homes didn't become good parents. People with bad childhoods didn't get to have happy families.

Then he'd looked down at that little pink face, and the shock of dark hair on the baby's – their baby's – head, and somehow, his nerves had settled. He wouldn't screw this up, because he couldn't screw this up.

Brody was their little angel. Brody was also their learning curve, and Scout's best friend in the whole world. Mostly because the dog refused to leave his side, right up to the point of sleeping outside their bedroom against their door if they didn't let him curl up on the floor beside the basinet. He even looked like a little angel, with his thick curls and big, dorky smile. It was hard not to fall in love with him.

It was hard, too, not to say no to Leo when he'd lifted up that border collie-corgi mix pup, and begged Ward 'please'. Harder still when the toddler on Grant's hip had gasped and reached for the dog.

And that was how they'd ended up with a chinook, a little boy, and a hyperactive borgi named Cricket.

Cricket, contrary to Scout, didn't take so well to Ward's training attempts. Yes, he could sit, lay down, and sure, he was house-trained. That was about where the similarities ended. The smaller dog was excitable, and he could be loud, and yet, even when he annoyed Grant, he was fond of him.

Not that he would say that out loud.

It didn't stop Leo from leaning against him, smirking and teasing 'you like him'. Without fail, every time, Brody would pipe up, 'yup, daddy, you like 'im'.

And there was no arguing with a three year old.

A three year old, who, really, needed a sibling. Grant was pretty sure he'd surprised both of them by being the first of them to bring it up. It hadn't taken more than a week for Leo to agree though.

And then there were six. Grant, Leo, Brody, Scout, Cricket, and Mathilda.

It was when they adopted her and brought her home that Ward understood how a family was supposed to be. Brody was so gentle with his sister, the dogs were so careful around her. There was something about watching his husband and son fawn over the new baby, with her darker skin and thick, dark hair looking every inch the angel Brody had, that made Grant's heart clench.

Things like that were what made this all seem like a fairytale. Because they were supposed to be in SHIELD, they were supposed to be going along with all things life-threatening, the same as always. Instead, they were here, in Washington, with their two kids, and their two dogs. With their house, and their SUV with the baby on board sticker Skye had stuck on there when she and Jemma had come to meet Brody. The thing wasn't necessary anymore. Brody was six. Tilda was three. They weren't babies, as Brody stiffly told them every now and then when he caught sight of the yellow diamond sticker.

It was all so strangely, wonderfully... _domestic._

What kind of weird lives had they led before that Grant Ward would call domesticity a fairytale?

“I can actually _feel_ you thinking yourself into a corner. That's amazing.”

Grant laughs, softly, and loosens his arms so Leo can lean back, regarding him carefully. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong,” he answers immediately, without a hint of a lie. Nothing _is_ wrong. In fact, Grant would say that he feels light-years away from anything that could approach the realm of feeling wrong. Dwelling on the last decade of his life – their life – has put him in a wonderfully good mood. “Do you want to take the kids out today? We can see if something's going on in the city, if not, we can always run a canoe down to the river, take them out on the water for a bit.”

“Mm,” Leo smiles, nuzzles his head back into the pillow. “Yeah. I'd like that. I bet they would, too.” His fingers skim down the whole of Grant's side, climbing down his forearm until they're brushing indistinguishable patterns on his palm. “They've been really good, lately.”

“They have,” Grant agrees, and then pauses. They have been good lately. No arguments about eating their vegetables, no crayon drawings on the walls, no random destruction of how nicely folded their clothing is in their dressers. He can't actually remember when the last time was that he had to argue with Tilda about bathtime, or with Brody about brushing his teeth before bed.

They're overdue for an incident.

Leo seems to realize that in the same instant as Grant, because his eyes suddenly clear, and narrow. “Does it seem really quiet to you?”

Grant wants to say that it's probably because the kids asleep still, but that's not it. Underneath the regular morning sounds of birds, and the house humming, he can hear the TV downstairs. Cartoons, from the exaggerated sound effects. Maybe, just maybe, all that means is that the two of them are sitting in front of the TV, in their pajamas, watching Saturday morning cartoons. The fact that they're overdue for an incident, though, makes Grant think otherwise, and he gets up at the same time as Leo, padding to their bedroom door in his sleep pants. Leo pauses only to grab a worn SHIELD Academy shirt to pull over his plaid sleep pants, before following, both of them heading downstairs.

It's weird. Cricket isn't even tap-dancing around at the foot of the stairs. Normally once he hears their door open, he's there, begging for breakfast, like he hasn't been fed in a year, when, in reality, it was less than ten hours before that they filled his dish.

The reason why becomes obvious the second they step into the family room, where the sound is coming from.

“Oh, my _god_.”

Grant could easily echo his husband's thoughts, staring at the picture before them. Brody and Tilda aren't sitting on the couch, rather, they're sitting on the floor, with a jar of peanut butter open between them. One of the huge tubs of it they sold at Costco. With the way the kids went nuts for the stuff, it had made sense to buy it; the most bang for their buck. What neither of them had expected, though, was for the kids to be sitting on the floor with that open jar, with four spoons between them. One for each of them...

...And one for each of the dogs. Like some kind of peanut butter lollipop, each of their kids was holding a spoon out while Scout and Cricket licked and bit the globs of peanut butter on them. For the kids' part, they weren't doing much better, scooping spoonfuls of peanut butter out of the jar and licking it off while their eyes stayed trained on the TV screen.

“What's going on here?”

If the kids hadn't heard Leo's quiet reaction before, they definitely heard Grant. Brody immediately stills, and turns to look at them, spoon hanging from his mouth. Tilda drops the spoon she was holding for Cricket, which, thankfully, lands peanut butter side up on the carpet. Cricket pays neither Grant, nor Leo, any attention, hunkering down on the floor and trapping the spoon between his front paws to continue licking away at it. Scout, however, stops licking the spoon in Brody's hand, straightening up, and doing his best job of discreetly licking his chops.

“Breakfast.” Brody finally supplies.

“Eating peanut butter out of a jar on a spoon isn't breakfast,” Fitz says, exasperated, stepping into the room and taking the jar from the floor. “You know better than that, Brody.”

“Yeah, but, you and dad were still sleepin', and Tilda was hungry. I didn't wanna make a mess and we're not supposed to use the toaster alone 'cause it gets hot.”

Grant sighs, picking Tilda up, and eying the mess all over her face. She frowns, patting his face with her sticky hand. “Just eatin', daddy.”

“I see that, baby girl.” He replies.

“I'm happy you didn't use it without us, but there were crackers, you know that.” Leo continues, helping Brody up. He glances at Cricket, and then at Grant, with a look that clearly asks, 'Do I take that away or just let it happen?' He doesn't look exactly thrilled when all he gets in response is a shrug. “Or, you could have woken us up.”

Brody shrugs, which is probably ridiculously infuriating to Leo, considering Grant had just done it. “Yeah, but you guys work so hard and you gotta sleep sometimes, so I took care of it.” He explains, as the four of them leave the family room, heading for the kitchen. The look Leo gives Grant this time was far less exasperated. In fact, Grant's sure if he listened hard enough, he'd hear Leo lamenting trying to scold their children when they were just trying to take care of things like this on their own.

“But, buddy,” Grant starts, sitting Tilda on the kitchen counter. She's happily sucking on her spoon of peanut butter again, oblivious to the discussion. “You know we'd wake up if you guys were hungry. We're your parents, we want to take care of you. Still...” He waits while Brody pulls himself up onto the bar stool that sat at their kitchen island. “Thank you, for taking care of your sister. And the dogs.”

Brody grins, sheepishly, at that. “Cricket was trying to eat out of the jar.” Leo abruptly freezes, staring at the jar in his hand, like he had suddenly realized that, regardless of whether the dogs ate out of it or not, the thing was full of dog slobber now. And their kids had been sharing that jar. “And Scout was droolin' a  _river_ . I hadta feed 'em, dad.”

“How about I make chocolate chip pancakes?” Leo suggests, setting the jar down at the edge of the counter, next to the garbage can. Tilda whips around so fast Grant worries she'll hurt her neck. The spoon in her hand clatters to the counter top and she presses her hands together at the mention of her favourite breakfast food (this month, anyway).

“Yes, please!”

“Chocolate chip pancakes it is, then,” Leo says. “You two should go wash your hands, and then come back in here. You can help me make them. Sound good?”

“Yep! Yep!” Tilda agrees with great gusto, shimmying forward on the counter, putting her hands on Grant's chest. “Daddy, down please. Have to wash hands, please.” Grant lets her down, kissing her cheek before letting her go, tearing off after her brother to the downstairs bathroom. It's crouched down like that, that he sees Scout hovering, just outside the kitchen, head down between his shoulders, the picture of canine shame.

“Come here, Scout.”

The dog slinks into the kitchen, sidling up in front of Grant, not making eye contact. Typical guilty dog behaviour.

“Come on, boy,” Grant chides, reaching out and ruffling the fur behind his ears affectionately. “You didn't do anything wrong.” He plants a kiss between the dog's eyes, noting the tail thumping happily on the floor. “Wanna go out?”

Leo hums, at the stove, and calls, “Cricket!” Seconds later the quick  _tap-tap_ of the corgi-mix's nails on the hardwood floor comes, signaling his arrival in the kitchen, a big dog grin on his face. “Hey, goof,” Leo greets affectionately, bending over to rub the dog's head. “You're in your glory, aren't you? Peanut butter for breakfast. Lucky boy.”

Grant stands, walking to the back door, and opening it, letting the dogs into the backyard. Scout goes out first, Cricket following after him quickly. With the door closed again, there are only the sounds of the running water in the bathroom, and Brody quietly telling Tilda to make sure she gets all the peanut butter off. Leo stands across from him, at the kitchen island, smiling and running a hand through his hair.

“Our kids.” He says, simply.

“Our kids,” Grant agrees, stepping close to kiss him, brief, and chaste. “Come on, let's get breakfast going, we're going out today.”

Maybe, to some people, this whole thing would seem domestic, and normal. It wouldn't seem like anything to describe as your wildest dream, to deem a fairytale. Those people weren't Grant Ward, though, and, watching his son and daughter come tromping back into the kitchen and swarm his husband, begging to help with making breakfast, he couldn't help thanking his lucky stars that he was living this normal, domestic fairytale.

 


End file.
